


swear it won't take you long

by ladyalysv



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Gay For You, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, No Homo, Porn With Plot, Self-Discovery, Trope Subversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-02 11:33:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6564541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyalysv/pseuds/ladyalysv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tyler's pretty good at not thinking about stuff. Like, professionally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	swear it won't take you long

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blue_rocket_frost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_rocket_frost/gifts), [sinsense](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinsense/gifts), [languisity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/languisity/gifts).



> I wrote the majority of this over a year ago and debated whether or not to rewrite it to include Jamie Benn's hip injury, among other things. In the end, I decided to leave it as-is. Thanks to everyone who looked at this as a WIP, especially Ashe, and to pinetreekate for the final beta.
> 
> This story references [comments that Jamie and Tyler made about the Canucks' Henrik and Daniel Sedin in February 2015](http://ftw.usatoday.com/2015/02/jamie-benn-and-tyler-seguin-take-a-cheap-shot-at-the-sedins).
> 
> CONTENT NOTES: internalized homophobia, homophobic and sexist language.

"I want to go to Whole Foods," Tyler says.

"Shoulda told me at the last light," Jamie says as he comes to a stop at the intersection.

Tyler flips him off, but Jamie doesn't notice; he's pulling his vibrating phone out of the audio dock. "I want lamb for dinner, okay."

"Shut up, it's the front office." Jamie tucks the phone next to his ear just before the light turns green. "Hello?" There's a long pause. "I don't remember what we talked about, no." Another pause. "I mean, they did ask us—yeah, we did talk about the Sedins—"

"Oh, shit," Tyler says as they blow past Whole Foods.

Jamie clears his throat. "Uh, I don't think—"

—

Tyler's pretty good at not thinking about stuff. Like, professionally.

—

Normally, they hang out at Tyler's, because, you know, dogs. Also, Tyler has real adult furniture that was purchased by a decorator and is slowly being destroyed by dogs. Jamie insists on furnishing his place himself, so there's the couch and a couple recliners and three massive TVs and a stove with a truly unnecessary quantity of burners, not much else. Presumably a bed. Tyler's never seen Jamie's bedroom.

If Jamie says, "Want to go to mine?" when they drive back from the rink, well, Tyler knows what that means. Today after practice is not an exception. Tyler puts on the Playboy channel for, like, background noise, Jamie gets them some beers, and they sit on the couch, Tyler's arm thrown over the back, casual. There's some girl on TV talking about learning to deep throat. Tyler wonders if Jamie will ever give him a blow job. His mind gets stuck on thinking about what it would be like to return the favor—that just seems like it might be crossing a line. One Tyler can't climb back over.

"Girl ever do that to you?" he says, nodding at the screen.

Jamie takes a long swallow of his beer. "Uh. Once. It seemed like she wasn't real into it, so."

Tyler makes a face. "Sucks, man."

"Well, negative on that, buddy," Jamie says. Tyler snorts.

Another beer in, Jamie puts his hand on Tyler's thigh, damp with the condensation from the bottle. Tyler could shrug it off, if he wanted. He doesn't. He lets Jamie unzip his pants and jerk him off, slow and solid and steady, which is always too little at first and torturous by the end. Tyler closes his eyes when he comes so he's not looking at Jamie, whose gaze is safely on the TV.

Tyler licks his palm before he returns the favor, which makes his grip slick for a minute and then rough and tacky for a while after. Jamie doesn't say anything about it, but he never does.

—

Maybe it started at the pool party.

"This is fucking _great_ , Segs," Jordie says, slinging an arm around Tyler's shoulders, the one that's holding a full cup of beer. Heineken sloshes across Tyler's shoulder, but whatever: Tyler lost his shirt like an hour ago. "This is a great party. This is gonna be a great year."

"You are trashed," Tyler says fondly, because he is pretty trashed, too.

If this were a Boston party, there'd be girls everywhere, at least one Tyler'd be angling to hook up with at the end of the night. They're in Dallas, though, so it's just the team, a couple girlfriends, Pevs's wife, and the dogs, chilling in Tyler's backyard with a keg two days before the preseason kicks off. Some of the guys are in the pool; Jamie is trying to brain Val with a pool noodle. Val lets Jamie get a few solid hits in before he tackles Jamie under the water. They're in the shallow end, it's fine. Jamie surges up, sputtering, and dunks Val's head beneath the churning water.

"Whoa, whoa," Kari says. "Save it for the ice, Sugar Shawn."

Jordie yawns into Tyler's ear. "I want a hot dog."

Spezz is in full dad-mode on the grill—he even found an apron somewhere—and he deals Jordie and Tyler two dogs apiece, loaded up with all the good stuff. "Wait, is this sauerkraut?" Jordie squints at his hot dog. "I'm gonna be picking this out of my teeth for two days, man, why'd you—."

Tyler elbows Jordie off his shoulder and says, "YOLO," because he fucking loves sauerkraut.

In the water, things have calmed down; Val's talking to Goose, Dales is doing a lazy butterfly up and down the length of the pool. Tyler goes over to the bench seat where Jamie's perched and sits down on the tile beside him, getting his legs into the water. The sun's getting low, but the day hasn't cooled off yet, and the little waves feel so good licking at his ankles. Jamie looks up at Tyler just when he's wiping ketchup off his chin and says, "You think I should get a pool put in at my place?"

Tyler chews, chews, swallows. "Dude, I don't know why you bought a place _without_ a pool."

"I don't know why I bought a place," Jamie admits.

"Well—" Tyler stares his plate, looking for inspiration. "You don't have to pay for parking anymore?"

"Right," Jamie says drily. "It was definitely the three-car garage."

Marshall comes wandering over to say hi and cruise for hot dog nibbles, which Tyler should not be feeding him and does anyway. Relish is probably okay for dogs. "Hey, get me another beer?" he calls to Jordie, which is right when Jamie grabs Tyler by the ankle and yanks him into the pool.

—

The first time, Tyler goes over to Jamie's an hour before the Patriots game starts so they can pregame. The Stars went down to the Lightning 1-5 at home yesterday; it's not like the preseason matters, but that's still embarrassing. Last season, they'd put on the TV on nights like this and Tyler and Jordie would fuck around on their phones while Jamie chilled out.

"I got chips." Tyler sets them out on the coffee table. "Guac and salsa."

"From Costco?" Like Jamie's entire freezer isn't Costco steaks and tots.

Tyler pushes Jamie's feet off the table. "Don't look snacks in the eye of the beholder, man."

Because Jamie's the master chef of this outfit, he's considerately made a tray full of jello shots in blue raspberry and strawberry, loaded up with enough vodka that the jello barely set. Tyler starts off with three in a row, chugs some water, and settles in with a plate of chips to take the edge off. He's not 18 anymore; he can pace himself, mostly.

They're both pretty drunk when halftime rolls around, but not, like, sloppy. Tyler's kind of leaning on Jamie's shoulder, and when Jamie moves to dig his phone out of his pocket to order pizza, Tyler puts his head in Jamie's lap and leaves it there. Jamie is nice and warm and solid. He feels good. "I want barbecue chicken," Tyler says. "Like, a whole one. A big one. The—big size."

Jamie _hmm_ s. "That's a girl pizza, Seggy."

"Fuck you, meat lover," Tyler says. "My dick is bigger than that pizza."

"Sure it is," Jamie says skeptically.

Tyler turns his head and bites Jamie's thigh. Jamie yelps, and then his fingers are on Tyler's side, pushing up beneath the hem of Tyler's shirt— _tickling_ him, jesus, that's fighting dirty. They scuffle on the couch for a few minutes, until Jamie has Tyler good and pinned, hands up over his head, one of Tyler's legs clamped between Jamie's thighs, his knee up against Tyler's hard dick. "This is kinda—" Tyler pants against Jamie's ear, but he can feel it—Jamie's hard, too.

Jamie grunts and grinds down against Tyler, and—they're drunk, they're wrestling on the couch, it's no big deal. Tyler's cheek is pressed up against Jamie's, his lips almost brushing Jamie's ear. There's a commercial for tires on in the background. Tyler looks over Jamie's shoulder at the shifting light of the TV on the wall above the couch and closes his eyes. He comes like that a few minutes later, and Jamie follows him with a long, sustained shudder.

"I'm getting breadsticks with the pizza," Jamie says, right after, with his lips moving against the curve of Tyler's neck. "I want breadsticks."

"Okay," Tyler says.

And then they clean up and watch the rest of the game.

—

Kim in the front office is Tyler's mom's age. She likes skirt suits and has one of those hairstyles that look normal in Dallas and ridiculous anywhere else: brown curls blown out and teased within an inch of their life. Usually when Tyler has a meeting with her, it's about PR, charity stuff, dinners and golf outings and whatever. Low-key. Today, Nill is in her office, taking up the most comfortable chair, and Jamie and Tyler have to settle for the saggy-bottomed ones opposite Kim's desk. This is like being called up to see the principal.

"So, I understand you and Jamie have made apologies to the Sedins," Nill says. "Which is all well and good, but—"

Tyler wants to say, _I thought we were done having this conversation._ But he doesn't. He's getting the feeling that he's maybe never going to be done having this conversation.

Kim says, "I'd like to make a suggestion. Have you boys thought about doing a video for You Can Play?"

Tyler's palms go all sweaty and hot. His knee hurts. He doesn't—

"Um, this is _Dallas_ ," Jamie says.

"You think this is gonna go worse for you than saying you think the Sedin twins fuck on live radio?" Nill says.

Kim clears her throat. "My son, he's fifteen, he's been playing soccer since he was three. It'd mean a lot to have you guys out there, saying something. Maybe you'd get some tough press here, but in national media you'd do well."

There's a long pause where Nill does Disappointed Dad face and Kim does Worried Mom face and it's possibly the most horrible thing Tyler has witnessed since his actual parents were in the same room to judge him together. "I mean," Tyler says. "It's not—I don't have something against gay people. This is just, you know."

Jamie says, "I have a gay cousin. Or, uh—she's a girl."

"We'll help with your statements," Kim says firmly.

—

Sure, Tyler doesn't care who he plays with, whether they're queer or have a dick or don't. Like, Phil Kessel's sister is hot as hell, he'd do her _and_ play with her, not that Tyler would cop to that in front of Phil. And if—if Jamie were gay, that'd be fine, you know? It would explain how terrible he is with girls, for one, although it just makes his hair situation more embarrassing.

But in the locker room, it's guy territory. You have to keep it guy territory so nothing's weird. If you see each other's junk on the regular and you're hugging up on each other all the time, if you're in it to win it together, you can't let shit get gay. You have to joke about it. And sure, it's an insult, sometimes, when a guy's being an asshole and you've got to get him where it hurts. But sometimes it's how you show your love. If you say, "I'll eat your _ass_ for lunch," while you punch somebody in the arm, that makes it not gay at all.

—

Tyler wakes up to a text from Jamie: _Gonna paint the living room._

It's 6AM and Marshall and Cash aren't even trying to get Tyler up yet, so Tyler rolls over and goes back to sleep. When he drags his ass out of bed at 8, he's on autopilot, feeding the dogs, letting them out back, taking an urgent piss while they do. He's not quite to "forage for food" when the doorbell rings.

Jamie holds out a Whataburger paper bag that's already stained with grease on the bottom. "I got breakfast burritos."

"Why?" They don't even have optional skate today; Tyler was planning on going for a run with the dogs, then hitting the golf course, maybe.

"You're helping me paint, aren't you?" Jamie says.

"Uh," Tyler says. "I thought you meant, like—hiring a professional."

They eat breakfast in the kitchen while the dogs flip out because they haven't seen Jamie in two whole days and he's their _favorite person_ and he's totally going to take them on a walk, right? Right? Spoiler alert: Jamie is not going to take them on a walk. He does concede to waiting for Tyler to tire them out with a jog around the neighborhood, though. "I'll meet you at mine," Jamie says. "Bring clothes you don't mind losing."

"I've painted a house before," Tyler lies with great dignity.

Jamie is not fucking around with this painting thing. When Tyler finally rolls up, Jamie has the furniture moved to the center of the room and tarps over everything and painter's tape and basically the entire paint section of Home Depot, half in bags and half on the floor. "I picked out this color for the accent wall." Jamie hands Tyler a a paint chip. "And this is the other walls, it's lighter, we'll do them first."

The accent color is a buttery toffee, the main a few shades off eggshell. Tyler narrows his eyes. "Did you pick these out on your own?"

"Mom mailed them to me," Jamie says. "She said if she comes to visit and the house is still fucked up she's going to turn it into an issue of _Country Living_."

Tyler's mom loves _Country Living_. "Ugh," he says feelingly.

The accent wall in Jamie's living room is like three Jamies high, but there's a ladder and they'll deal with that later. The ceiling slopes down from that side toward the far end of the living room, broken up by decorative beams and a series of narrow skylights that cut bright stripes across the floor. Probably the effect is intended to be rustic, but it's more franchise trattoria than Texan luxury. Tyler takes a roller, shoves one of the fuzzy cylinders onto it, and screws a handle onto the end.

The hard part of painting, it turns out, is not slapping eggshell on the walls: it's watching Jamie do it in a faded Kelowna Rockets t-shirt that's coming apart at the seams and has a splotchy bleach stain down the side. Jamie whistles along to Jay-Z's verse on "Monster," which is just embarrassing, but there's no one here except for Tyler to judge him. "You mind if I put on some of Mike's stuff?" Tyler says. "Or, like, Kendrick."

"Sounds good," Jamie says. He has paint on his ear, somehow.

Tyler goes home after they get the living room halfway done and Jamie has conceded to get someone to paint the giant wall. He lets the dogs out, orders takeout on his phone, and does his light-day workout in his weight room while he waits for food to appear. Food appears. He eats with the TV on the background, some reality show, he's not really paying attention.

He pulls up some porn on his tablet before he goes to sleep, girl on girl, normal stuff. They both have blonde hair, look like they're into it. Big tits.

—

Tyler's seen a lot of dicks, swinging soft in the showers, in the locker room; he used to watch porn with Brownie and compare how hard they got. Brownie's dick was bigger. "I'm a grower, not a shower," he said. "I'll show _you_ something," Tyler said, and then they had to clean jizz out of Brownie's host family's carpet.

—

"Let me look at your thing, I'll fix it." Jamie's juggling two Starbucks cups and a bag in Tyler's kitchen, because he's that guy who refuses to take a tray. "I got breakfast and your pussy drink."

"Fuck off," Tyler says amiably, shutting the puppy gate behind them before he takes his vanilla latte from Jamie. "Someone's going to rewrite these for us anyway."

"I think the point is that we tried," Jamie says as he starts unloading breakfast sandwiches onto the kitchen table.

Tyler raises his eyebrows. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

Jamie sits down next to Tyler and scoots his chair in beneath the table, legs squeaking on the tile floor. "Sure, whatever. Give it up."

Because it's Jamie, his statement is not particularly eloquent. _I'm Jamie Benn, Captain of the Dallas Stars. In sports, we compete with the best to be the best. If you can play, you can play. Everyone should be welcome on the ice and the field._ Tyler says, "You definitely tried, buddy."

"You don't have to make yours so—" Jamie clears his throat. "We don't have to say that much. Just, you know, put our faces on it."

"Everyone thinks I hate fags," Tyler says. "They're just going to shit on me more for talking around it."

"Well," Jamie says.

Their sandwiches are going to get cold. Tyler looks down at Jamie's phone, at the black letters on the yellow fake-notebook background. "You don't think that."

"You don't really talk about it," Jamie says. He shrugs. "It's cool."

"No, it is definitely not cool," Tyler says.

Tyler drinks his latte and watches Jamie put away three sandwiches with one hand while he types on Tyler's phone with the other. Tyler eats two. A notification pops up on Jamie's phone: _op skate @10_. Jamie glances at it, then looks back to Tyler's phone. "Eat up, Seggy."

The last sandwich is sitting in front of him, sausage and cheddar, cool and unappealing. Tyler says, "I don't hate gay people," and kisses Jamie before he can think too hard about it. They're too close together, it's bad angle, so he mostly smacks their noses together and gets the corner of Jamie's mouth, fuck. Fuck.

Jamie jerks his head up as Tyler pulls away. "What was that for?"

"You know," Tyler says. "I just—do you think that?"

"You kissed me, how the fuck would _I_ know?" Jamie says.

Tyler says, "I don't hate you."

"Duh." Jamie pauses. "I'm not gay, Tyler."

"We do gay stuff," Tyler points out.

Jamie raises his eyebrows. "We're friends, it's not _gay_."

"Do you normally touch your friends' dicks?" Tyler says, a little louder than he means to.

"Some of them," Jamie says. "It's not gay." He elbows Tyler. "Chill out, Seggy. It's not a big deal."

"Sure," Tyler says. "Okay."

—

One time, Jamie comes back to Tyler's place, after. He makes dinner while Tyler rolls around on the floor with the dogs. Jamie's not the world's greatest chef, but he makes spaghetti sauce from the fancy canned tomatoes and meatballs from scratch, loaded with garlic and onions and whatever seasonings go into meatballs. "Smells good," Tyler calls over. He rolls onto his stomach so his belly is pressed against the cool tile and reaches out to scratch behind Marshall's ears. "Yeah, buddy, who's got you? I got you."

—

Cabbie asks them to do a prank for Valentine's Day. "You're single guys, it'll be funny," he says, and Jamie says, "Right on that one." And yeah, it's pretty hilarious right up until Tyler gets his mom on the phone.

Tyler can barely do it. When Mom says, "You're lying," it's a huge relief. He says, "Come on, you're my only valentine."

They film at Tyler's. After the crew clears out, Jamie turns on the TV, flips channels. "Oh, hey, _The Sandlot_ is on."

Tyler's still itchy with nerves and adrenaline, the way he gets after they lose a game. The last thing he wants to do is watch _The Sandlot_ — _again_ —but he says, "Okay," and gets them beers out of the fridge, because what the hell else does he have to do tonight.

Marshall and Cash are off having their afternoon nap somewhere where the surround sound volume isn't quite so loud, so it's just Tyler and Jamie in the living room, chilling like they do, right up against each other on the couch. The movie is boring, and Jamie's face is just _there_ , so close to Tyler's. It would be so easy to turn his head and—something.

Instead, Tyler leans his head on Jamie's shoulder, slips his hand down to rest on Jamie's thigh. Jamie's so solid. Tyler could pick a fight over the remote and get Jamie on top of him again, pressing him down into the couch. Maybe get their dicks out this time. His hand is still on Jamie's thigh. He doesn't know how to do this, how to get things started.

"Hey, it's okay." Jamie puts his hand on Tyler's, a quick pat, then it's gone. "It's—"

Tyler says, "I'm not gay."

"Never said you were," Jamie says.

"You're not, either," Tyler says sharply. "You're not a—"

Jamie says, "I'll suck your dick if you shut up."

Jamie is not great at sucking dick, which is kind of reassuring. Like, if he were good, that would definitely be—that would be weird. Not that this isn't. Not that—Jamie has Tyler's _dick_ in his _mouth_. His lips are pink and shiny and his big hand is fisted around the base of Tyler's dick so he doesn't choke himself. "Sorry," Jamie says after a couple minutes, pulling off. "My jaw hurts."

"Take a break, it's fine." Tyler has one hand splayed out on the couch cushion next to him, the other in Jamie's hair. He doesn't remember putting it there. He watches Jamie, this time, while Jamie jerks him off, nice and slow, which is the opposite of what Tyler wants right now. "You can—faster. Yeah, like—"

"I got it," Jamie says seriously. He tightens his fingers around Tyler's dick and gives it to him just right, which is probably why Tyler comes before he can even get Jamie's mouth on him again.

—

"Redhead's hot, buy her a drink." Tyler nods at the girl watching them from further down the bar. Okay, she's doing the cowboy hat and miniskirt thing, but it's Dallas: Tyler's adjusted his standards accordingly.

Jamie shrugs. He doesn't pick up a lot. "You into her, or—"

"Eh," Tyler says.

Jamie takes a sip of his beer, taps his nails on the bar. They're clipped short and square. He waves at the bartender, but he doesn't make eye contact with the redhead at that end of the bar. "We've got an early up tomorrow."

"Yeah," Tyler says, going for his wallet.

—

Jamie goes through the In-N-Out driveway and orders them a ton of food—two burgers each, fries, shakes—and drives them back to his house. Tyler eats a burger and half of his fries on the drive over. It feels inevitable, that they'll wind up on Jamie's couch after they finish, turn the TV on. Tyler closes his eyes as soon as he lowers himself down on the couch; he doesn't care what's on, it might as well be QVC.

"I don't want to fuck with your knee," Jamie says.

"I'll be fine." Tyler undoes his belt, unzips his pants. Lets Jamie pull his dick out. He's full, sleepy, kind of hazy—it makes this as unreal as drinking does. He's not even hard yet, but Jamie works him up, gentle, easy. Deliberate. Tyler pants through his orgasm, presses his face to Jamie's shoulder, which smells like laundry detergent and locker room soak and musk.

Then he's waking up, still half-slumped into Jamie, Jamie's arm draped over his shoulders. Tyler pretends he's still asleep for a while and listens to some commentator on ESPN spout bullshit about the Pens-Caps game. It's close up to the end, but the Pens win 4-3.

"You could just let the front office write something for you," Jamie says, driving Tyler back later, because god forbid Tyler walk three blocks on a sprained MCL. "Just read it. It doesn't have to be a big thing."

"Are you going to do that?" Tyler says.

Jamie shakes his head. "I'm the captain. It's different for me."

—

Tyler calls Brownie on Skype, because it's Brownie or Mom, and he really doesn't want to talk about his dick with Mom. They had that conversation once when he was 14, that was enough. "Yo, my man," Brownie says. "I just saw your face on Tuesday. You break another iPad?"

Tyler flips him off. "Suck my dick, asshole." He misses Brownie being close enough to give him a noogie.

Brownie grins. "Not if you paid me, sugar daddy. What's up?"

"Front office is making Jamie and me do a video for You Can Play." Tyler makes a face at his phone, which means he has to see himself scowling back in the little box overlapping Brownie's camera feed.

Brownie is on his laptop, so half the frame is taken up by his chest and the faded Blink 182 shirt he's wearing. "Aww, I bet they have someone to do his hair."

Tyler sighs. "Do I look like a queer?"

"Only a little," Brownie says. "Like if you were trashed, you'd let Marchy give you a hand behind a dumpster." He leers.

Marshall chooses this moment to climb into Tyler's lap and start licking his face. "That was one time," Tyler says, tilting back his head to dodge Marshall's tongue. "I was blacked out."

Brownie says. "Don't worry so much. If you were a fag, I'd still let you help me piss."

"I'll let you piss your pants before I touch your dick," Tyler says reflexively.

"That's love, princess," says Brownie.

—

Jamie puts on actual porn next time, a guy and girl. The guy is hung like a Nalgene, the girl's tits are fake, everybody is improbably waxed. So, the kind of stuff Tyler was into at 13, when his dick said "hello" to basically anything with a pussy. "I don't know where she puts that," he says. "His dick is like—"

"Yeah," says Jamie.

The action on screen is boring, drawn out, kind of hypnotic. In real life, sex never seems to go on this long. They keep switching positions; the girl orgasms a lot, or pretends to. Probably this'll end with the guy putting the money shot on her chest or something. Tyler plucks at the overlap of the label on his beer bottle until the seal gives way and one end comes loose. He can't get the other end free as easily; for some reason, the paper always sticks tighter to the bottle.

"Hey." Jamie tugs the bottle out of Tyler's hands and puts it on the coffee table. "Can you—"

The girl on screen moans loudly. "What?"

"I want to try something." Jamie shifts on his cushion. He leans toward Tyler, tilts his head a little, and then his mouth is on Tyler's. Jamie's lips are a little dry. "Your mustache tickles."

"Shut up about my mustache," Tyler says, but he puts a hand to his face anyway. His cheeks are hot; his mustache feels normal. Girls don't usually say anything about it. Jamie is still sitting really close, right up against Tyler's side. Tyler could kiss him again, for real. Or he could say, _this is weird_ , and they'd stop. "See if I kiss you with a playoff beard."

"Oh, so I'm growing a playoff beard now?" Jamie says lightly.

They're four places and nine points out of the bottom wildcard spot, but— "I guess you could glue Jordie's leftovers on your face."

Jamie rolls his eyes. "Fuck, no, are you kidding me?"

"No," Tyler says. "I'm extremely serious about this, _Jameson_." He gets halfway through that before he starts giggling, which kind of ruins it, but whatever. Jamie laughs, too, and then they're kissing. The kiss is warm and easy and sweet, just the right amount of wet, and Jamie's hand comes up to cup Tyler's jaw, thumb stroking against Tyler's ear. It's nothing like the open-mouthed tongue-fucking on screen in front of them. It's weird, it's perfect, and Tyler never wants to stop.

—

Tyler's back out on the ice today after two weeks on the bench—not for regular practice, just some light skating, getting used to his knee brace. It doesn't constrict his movement as much as he expected. He cuts sharp furrows into the ice, weaving up and down and across the blue line, and dodges a bunch of hugs from the guys. "You should come over, Seggy," Jordie ruffles Tyler's hair lightly. "You gotta be bored, spending all this time cooped up with Chubbs."

"Eh," Tyler says. "It's okay."

—

The next night, Tyler turns on the TV—fucking ESPN, seriously, Jamie?—and puts his Corona on the coffee table. When he turns his head and Jamie's right there, his lips meeting Tyler's, his hand coming to rest on Tyler's waist like this is a Disney movie and he's going for G rating. Last time, this ended with Tyler's dick in Jamie's mouth again, so they're probably not getting this one past the MPAA. Tyler throws one arm over Jamie's shoulder and slides his free hand up the back of Jamie's shirt, drags his nails back down the way he came.

"Jesus," Jamie says, coming up for air. "Okay, if that's what you— _okay_." His next kiss is hard, aggressive, and he pushes Tyler back up against the couch until he can straddle Tyler's lap. Belatedly, he fumbles at their zippers; Tyler has to undo the button on his pants. Jamie gets his broad, rough palm around their dicks, and it's kind of dry and uncomfortable for a minute, but their dicks are touching and Tyler's tongue is in Jamie's mouth, so that's okay. Jamie's back is getting sweaty, sticky under Tyler's hand. Their dicks are touching. Their dicks are touching. Tyler puts a hand between them to help Jamie out, twining their fingers together, rubbing beneath the head of Jamie's dick with his thumb. Jamie's cheeks are flushed. "Come on," he says. "Do it for me. Do it—yeah, just like that."

—

"'People of all orientations should be welcome in sports,'" reads the guy from You Can Play— _Kenny_ , that's what his name tag says. They're sitting together in one of the multipurpose rooms in the AAC while the camera woman sets up. They didn't bring anyone for hair and makeup, but Kim came by earlier and did some contouring on Tyler's face so he won't look dead beneath the lighting. "'Sports are for everyone, regardless of their identity or background. In the NHL, we work together as a team for success. I'm Tyler Seguin of the Dallas Stars. If you can play, you can play on my team.' Did you write this yourself?'"

Tyler nods. "I watched a lot of the videos, and Jamie looked at it, and the front office, but—isn't doing it myself kind of the point?"

Kenny looks up from his iPad. "Well, the end product is the point. It's nice that you put some work into it, though. Thanks."

"I care about this." Tyler cracks his knuckles; bad habit. He doesn't know what to do with his hands after, so he crosses his arms and tucks his hands into his armpits. "I know I don't come across like—I _care_ , okay?"

"Hey, I didn't come here thinking you didn't." Kenny leans back in his chair. "I don't think everyone in pro sports is a bigot. A lot of people—they don't even think about what they're saying half the time. That's what You Can Play is trying to work on, you know? Changing the conversation. Making people feel safe and welcome."

The woman setting the drape up against the wall mutters, "Fuck," and Tyler gets up to give her a hand with the frame. She's got an inch on him and she hooks the drape into place easily once he's stabilizing her support. "Thanks, hon," she says, smiling. Her name tag says _Tisha_ ; she has short gray dreads and a wedding ring on her finger. Tyler wonders if she's gay, whether Kenny is. He doesn't know how to ask.

He spends a few minutes fiddling with his phone, checking his email. There's nothing interesting, just Facebook notifications and junk mail from websites where Tyler bought something five years ago. He doesn't need a new phone case, but he should probably post a birthday message on his aunt's Facebook wall. _Happy bday!!!_. Okay, that's good.

"You want do a dry run before I start rolling?" Tisha says abruptly; Tyler almost drops his phone. "Or you can just go for it. We'll do a couple takes here, then get some footage of you and Jamie skating."

"I'm good," Tyler says. "Yeah, let's do it."

The lights are bright, but he does this all the time, talking to the media after games, longer interviews, photos with fans, whatever. Tyler's had years to get used to being under the magnifying glass of a camera lens. He can do this.

—

Jamie looks unruffled when Tyler joins him on the ice; he did his statement earlier, before the optional skate that Tyler missed. "Hey," he says, slapping Tyler on the shoulder. "Let's do this thing."

Tyler's still wearing his knee brace, so his skating isn't as neat and fluid as he'd like it to be. At least his injury hasn't fucked with his stick handling. He plays around a little on the ice, passing the puck around with Jamie, and then they take turns putting it in the net. Piece of cake. "Thanks, guys, I'll be in touch," says Kenny when they wrap up; "Pleasure working with you," Tisha says. Tyler shakes her hand.

"That wasn't so bad," Jamie says as they head back to the locker room to change out of their gear. "I thought it was going to be more—" He shrugs. "I don't know."

"Nobody asked you to tattoo a rainbow flag on your ass?" Tyler says.

"Nobody asked me anything, really," Jamie says. "They had me do a couple takes, that was all."

Tyler sits down to take off his skates. "Me, too."

"I guess this'll be good for kids." Jamie pulls his jersey over his head. "Don't worry so much about it."

—

Tyler's first game back is on the Lightning's home ice, where the Stars lose 5-4. Two of those four goals are Tyler's, not that it matters—he's been out ten games, he's already out of the running for the Art Ross this year. He says some shit to the media in the locker room, because, yeah, he's fucking pissed. A couple of years ago, maybe he'd have been flattered to be so crucial to a team out there on the ice, but the reality is that it sucks. He's one guy—they're a _team_. No matter how much Tyler strengthens his two-way play, he can't be everywhere on the ice.

Jordie and a couple of the guys are headed to the hotel bar afterward, getting a beer to shake the loss off, but Tyler dodges their invites and heads up to bed. He wasn't joking about not being 100% until after this season—his knee fucking hurts, it's been two weeks since he got any of the good stuff, and he's not supposed to drink on the anti-inflammatories he does have. Probably he should order room service. Or dig into the stash of protein bars in his bag.

Someone knocks on his door.

"What—" Tyler starts to say, and then he sees the Chik-Fil-A bag in Jamie's hand. "Seriously?"

"You have to eat something," Jamie says. "Let me in."

They eat sitting on the edge of Tyler's bed with the bag between them, shoving chicken sandwiches in their mouths. The closer they get to the end of the season, the more Tyler feels like all he does is train and eat—he's always so _hungry_. Even Jamie, who's sturdily built, is starting to look sharper around the edges. Tyler says, "I don't want any nuggets," so Jamie takes care of the six-piece box. Then he crumples the debris into a ball and chucks it in the trash.

They're in a hotel room, on a bed, away from home. The TV is off. The only things they've drunk in the last hour are water and Gatorade. Whatever that means. Jamie turns his head and Tyler kisses him, hard. Jamie's still wearing his suit jacket; all he's done is sort of half-assedly loosened his tie. Tyler pulls it all the way free and wraps the silk around his fist, still warm from Jamie's body. He doesn't know where to put the tie after, so he just lets it fall on the bed when Jamie pull hims back in, one hand at Tyler's waist and the other at his neck, rubbing the short hair at the base of his neck. "Jesus," Jamie says, "You're—" He's a good kisser, puts his whole body into it, can't stop touching Tyler while their mouths move against each other: press, release, part for air. Repeat.

Kissing Jamie makes Tyler feel all shivery and new, remade in anticipation, like he can rewind past everything that happened tonight to make it good for them. Like he can ink another Stanley Cup on his ribs with their names beneath it. He gets the buttons of Jamie's shirt undone, lets Jamie return the favor. Tyler's seen Jamie shirtless a hundred times, but never like this, exposed for Tyler's touch. He rubs his thumb over Jamie's nipple, experimenting, until Jamie giggles and shoves Tyler back onto the bed, crawling up over him to tickle Tyler's sides while Tyler kicks at him ineffectually. "What the fuck, I'm not going to put out if you're going to—"

Jamie says, "Calm down, okay," and unbuttons Tyler's pants.

Tyler knows better to kick anyone whose mouth is going near his dick, so he stills and lets Jamie do his thing. One time a girl unzipped his pants with her teeth; Jamie fumbles with the zip for a moment, only gets it halfway down, and has to go back when Tyler's pants get hung up on his ass. "You're so bad at this," Tyler says, reaching down to help Jamie with his boxers. "Let me—"

Jamie bites Tyler's thigh and pulls his boxers the rest of the way down, tosses Tyler's clothes onto the floor. He's still dressed, shirt hanging unbuttoned off his shoulders, which seems unfair when Tyler is bare-ass naked on the floral bedspread. They are going to fuck this thing _up_. "Gonna blow you if you behave."

The bed's a queen, but they're big guys. "You picked the wrong dude for that, bro," Tyler says as he scoots up the mattress to make room for Jamie at the end. Jamie goes with him, pushing Tyler back until he's propped against the flood of pillows and the headboard with a good view for what happens next. Jamie runs his hands up the outside of Tyler's thighs, then bends down to nose along the inside, right past Tyler's dick. "Don't be a tease."

Jamie bites a sharp, sucking kiss into crease of Tyler's hip. That's going to bruise like hell, and everyone's going to see, everyone's going to—and it aches, stings when Jamie pulls away to put his mouth on Tyler's dick. Tyler's dizzy with it, the way his blood rushes to pool in his dick as it swells in Jamie's mouth, the mark forming on his hip. Jamie looks up at him through thick lashes, and it's nothing like before—Jamie's looking, he's looking at Tyler, and this is all for Tyler to see. Jamie scrapes his teeth lightly along the underside of Tyler's dick, flicks his tongue around the head. He _is_ a tease, and he draws it out forever, until Tyler's sweating, panting, hair sticking to his forehead, hands scrabbling against the sheets so he doesn't start yanking Jamie's hair. Tyler reaches back to brace himself against the headboard, but his sweaty palm just slides down the wood without finding purchase. Jamie pulls off for a second, panting, and—okay, maybe this is it, he's probably tired—throws an arm over Tyler's hips to pin him down to the bed. "I said _behave_."

Then Jamie gets back to it, sloppy and fast, and that's it, Tyler's done. He arches up against Jamie's firm grip and lets Jamie swallow him down as he comes. His hip stings, his knee still aches, but the tension in his body from earlier is gone. "Hey," he says, patting at Jamie's cheek, uncoordinated. "Come up here. Come on. I want—"

"Uh," says Jamie. He takes off his shirt, finally, and inches up the bed. There's jizz on his chin. Tyler wipes it off with his thumb and rubs his hand against the bedspread. "That's gross, Seggy, what the fuck."

Tyler puts a hand on Jamie's neck and tugs him closer. Jamie figures it out, after a second, and stiffens, but come on, like Tyler gives a fuck. Does Jamie think Tyler's going to wipe his jizz on the bed and get weird about it in his mouth? Whatever. He wants to be kissing Jamie now, so he's going to kiss Jamie. Soft, lazy, until Jamie gives in and opens his mouth, and their kisses get salty and viscous. Jamie's still hard, grinding slowly against Tyler's thigh. "Let me do you," Tyler says after a few minutes. "I think it's, like, my turn."

"You don't have to." Jamie's cheeks are pink and his hair is sticking up at weird angles. Gay sex hair is a better look on him than that fucking mullet. "It's not—you don't have to do it back, just because."

Tyler puts his hand on Jamie's dick, groping him through his slacks. Yeah, Jamie's going to have to dry-clean these. "I want to."

Coming down from orgasm, Tyler's starting to feel the air conditioning, the sweat drying on his skin. He pulls back the covers while Jamie gets up to take off his pants and hang them over the chair, climbs beneath. Jamie raises his eyebrows, but he slides between the sheets and next to Tyler, already radiating heat. Tyler wants to touch him everywhere. He starts with putting his hand on Jamie's hip and leaning in to kiss him again, stroking the long plane of his side, rubbing his thumb against the dip where the waistband of Jamie's pants has been digging in. Then he kicks backs the covers, scoots down, looks at Jamie's dick. Tyler's avoided looking at it before, but it's hard not to when he's going to put it in his mouth. Jamie's dick has a nice pink flush, curved up against his belly; he's hard enough that the foreskin has drawn back beneath the head. Jamie puts his hand on Tyler's shoulder. "You falling asleep down there?"

"Nope," Tyler says.

He gives Jamie's dick a tentative lick, then another. Jamie tastes like clean skin and sweat, saltier when Tyler laps at the moisture beading at the tip. Tyler just goes for it after that, tries to take the whole thing in; he chokes halfway down and gets a mouthful of pubic hair for his trouble. "Don't hurt yourself," Jamie says. "It's not, like, easy."

Tyler has a lot of things to say to that, but: dick in his mouth. He settles for rolling his eyes and trying again—slower, back and forth, gentle suction, careful with his teeth. After a minute, he gets his hand around the base of Jamie's dick, thumb brushing his balls, and starts jerking him, too. Despite Tyler's total lack of skills, Jamie is super into this: he's shaking, fingers running through Tyler's hair, scrabbling at his shoulders. Tyler's jaw is already getting sore, but he doesn't want to stop. He reaches up with his free hand to thread his fingers through Jamie's, pinning Jamie's hand to his thigh.

Jamie groans, his muscles tense, and then Tyler's mouth is full of jizz, which he swallows in self-defense. It's gooey and weird, but not bad. "Sorry. I should have—I didn't mean—"

Tyler shakes his head, swallows again. He wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand before he pushes himself back up the bed. "It's cool. I didn't mind."

Jamie's turned on his side, toward Tyler, his eyes already closing. "C'mere," he says, and Tyler goes in for one last sleepy, messy kiss. He should get up and brush his teeth, and Jamie should get back to his room—they've got an early flight. They should—they should—yeah. Any minute now.

—

Tyler has stretches to do every morning for his knee, fifteen minutes, which basically means he can't hit the snooze button on his phone anymore, he just has to get the fuck out of bed. He's leaning over to do that when he smacks Jamie in the face. "Huh," he says, because it's 4:25 AM. And then—"Shit. Jamie. Jamie." Jamie whines and nuzzles into Tyler's shoulder. Jamie is the kind of guy who has to hit the snooze button five times. " _Jamie_."

"What?" Jamie says. Then— "Fuck."

They have to leave for the airport in 35 minutes. Tyler hasn't even unpacked, let alone repacked his stuff, and they're definitely— "Go take a shower. Like, if you go right now, nobody's probably up—" That is a total lie. "You have time."

"What," Jamie says again.

The thing is, no one on the team would think anything about Jamie falling asleep here, except for the part where Tyler's had shirtless walks of shame where he looked less, you know, well-fucked. "We have to get _up_."

Jamie groans when Tyler turns on the light and goes to dig out his toiletries. He tosses Jamie his pants, then scoops his briefs off the floor, his shirt. "Tie?"

"I'll find it," Tyler says. "You just—you gotta go."

Jamie sits up and rubs his face. His hair's half sticking up, half in his eyes, and Tyler wants to go back to bed for, like, three more hours, at least order room service or something. He settles for killing time watching Jamie dress, then smoothing Jamie's hair and tucking it behind his ears before Jamie goes out the door. Jamie touches Tyler's hand as he pulls back. "Thanks. I'll—"

"Yeah," Tyler says. "I know."

He rushes through his exercises, takes a perfunctory shower. Until he sees it in the mirror, he forgets about the bruise, livid purple on hip and warm to the touch. His pants ride just beneath it; it'll show if he reaches up for anything.

—

Something about the loss in Tampa galvanizes them: the Stars clean up on the road, sweeping Philly, Raleigh, and DC. The Flyers aren't having a great season and Carolina is a joke, but they get four shots past Holtby and Ovechkin doesn't score a single goal on them. "We're only five points under the Kings right now," Lindy says in the visitors' locker room after the game. "We can still make the playoffs, guys. We can do it."

Sure, they'll have to keep up this streak and three other teams will have to lose, a lot, but it's not _impossible_. Jamie buys everyone a round when they go out after, crowding into booths at the back of a pub near the area. Tyler ends up wedged between Jamie and Val in a big booth in the back, Jordie and Demers on the other side scrutinizing the menu. "They have blooming onions here," Demers says. "What is this, Outback?"

"I want an onion," Jamie says immediately. "Maybe we should order, like, ten."

The booth they're in isn't small, but it's not quite deep enough for three hockey players. Val's ass has to be halfway off the seat. Tyler scoots in, pushing Jamie back against the wall and pressing their shoulders and thighs together, and Jamie throws his arm over the back of the bench. Somewhere along the way, this became comforting, the effortless jigsaw of their bodies together. "Get an onion if you want," Tyler says. "I'm going for the truffle fries."

— 

After he gets in from the red-eye back home, Tyler collapses into bed and sleeps for an hour before Cash gets up in Tyler's face and demands relief for his tiny puppy bladder. Tyler lets the dogs out back, chugs a protein shake, and gets back into bed for another three hours. He doesn't even look at his phone until noon. There's a couple emails waiting, one from the Biosteel guys and a couple forwards from Mom, and one from You Can Play. Tyler doesn't open it.

Tyler's knee hurts. He texts Brownie, _FML_ , gets back a _????? whattup bro_. Tyler says, _wish I knew_. His phone pings. _you busy?_ It's not Brownie.

Jamie lets himself into Tyler's house fifteen minutes later. Tyler doesn't bother to get up from the couch, just yells, "In here!" and lets Marshall do the greeting for him. He threw on a t-shirt over his boxers, that's as much effort as he can make today.

"I brought beer," Jamie says, holding up a six-pack of High Life.

"You mean you brought yourself beer," Tyler says.

Jamie shrugs. "Anything good on?"

"I don't know." Tyler rolls over until he's staring up at the high ceiling. It's got that weird popcorn texture that all of them do, but the grain is hard to make out from here. "I want to sleep forever. Or at least until dinner."

"No one's stopping you," Jamie says.

"You just going to hang out and watch TV by yourself?" Tyler says.

Jamie shrugs again. He puts the six-pack on the table and picks up the remote, sits down next to Tyler and passes him a pillow to put under his head. "You can keep me company."

Cash clambers up on the other end of the sectional to sprawl over Tyler's ankles; Marshall is still wandering around, out of Tyler's view. Tyler closes his eyes and turns on his side, toward the back of his couch. "Wake me up in an hour. I've got—a thing, with… the guys."

Jamie puts his hand on Tyler's neck, inches up until he's playing with the hair on the back of Tyler's neck where it begins to curl. "I got you," he says.

—

They go down 3-0 to the Blues at home the next day, which is just pathetic. Lindy chews them out in the locker room afterward, says, "We've got some tough games ahead of us, and we're not going to get anyone to give up those points with this kind of play. You've got to get your heads together. This isn't fair to our fans." Which, Jesus, like Tyler doesn't know that—they've sucked at home all season. "Do we need to get a cannon in here? An organist?"

"I fucking hate playing Columbus," someone mutters. Probably Eaves.

"I will personally fire that cannon if it gets your asses in gear," says Lindy.

Jordie says, "Sounds great."

Tyler tries not to rush through his postgame workout, even though he just wants to go the fuck home and get in bed. Maybe Skype Brownie, talk shit about nothing in particular while the dogs try to get their attention. He's not expecting Jamie to be waiting for him when he gets done, dangling the car keys in his fingers. "Oh, you drove, that's right."

"What, were you going to cab it home?" Jamie says. "Let's get out of here."

It's late on a Sunday night in Dallas; the crowd at the AAC has cleared out, the lights of the businesses around them have dimmed. The staples of life are still open—fast food, CVS, Wal-Mart—but the roads are quiet and the highway is clear. Jamie idles at the last red light before their neighborhood. "My place? Or do you need to—"

"Dog walker's been by," Tyler says. "I can wait."

They eat dinner in Jamie's kitchen, lazy pasta carbonara with extra eggs and fried-up deli ham because Jamie's out of bacon. It's not great, but it's carbs and protein, better than takeout or what Tyler could make on his own. Jamie puts on ESPN afterward, which at this point in the night is about as compelling as QVC. "No," Tyler says, reaching for the remote. "We're not—"

"I'm not sucking your dick to _Game of Thrones_ , what the fuck." Jamie makes a face, then a different one, like he's hearing what he just said.

It's not that they don't talk about it. It's just—they don't talk about it in advance. It always just seems to happen, moment to moment, unplanned and improvised, nothing premeditated. Like every time Tyler's hand winds up on Jamie's dick, it's an accident. An accident that happens all the time. Sure.

Tyler says, "You'd suck my dick to _Say Yes to the Dress_."

"No," Jamie says after a moment. "I would not suck your dick to _Say Yes to the Dress_. Negative, Seggy. I would not do that."

They end up making out on the couch with a _CSI: Miami_ rerun on in the background, no dick-sucking, just sleepy handjobs. Jamie gets their dicks out, Tyler's first, then his own, then climbs up on Tyler's lap so he can jerk them off together, knuckles rubbing Tyler's abs below his rucked-up t-shirt. It's an awkward angle to kiss, but Tyler bites Jamie's shoulder through his t-shirt, hard. Jamie shudders above him. "Gonna mess you up," Tyler pants against Jamie's neck. "Gonna mess you up. Gonna—" He gets it all over both of them when he comes, a long, shaky orgasm that seems to go on forever. Jamie goes right after him, jizzing all over Tyler's chest. Tyler runs his fingers through the jizz and reaches up to smear it along Jamie's cheek, down his neck.

"Fucking gross, you _asshole_ ," Jamie groans, and yeah, it gets pretty messy from there.

—

A week later, Tyler is in the kitchen, pawing through Jamie's fridge—condiments, half a grocery-store rotisserie chicken, protein shakes—when Jamie comes in, brandishing his phone. "It's going up tonight. They just sent us an email."

"What?" Tyler says.

"The _video_."

Tyler just wanted to stand in front of the fridge and eat some cold chicken out of the container. He's still holding its stiff paper handle. "The video," he says. "Oh."

Jamie says, "I don't want to watch it in here."

"Watch it?"

Jamie's already walking away. Tyler relinquishes the chicken and hastens to catch up, following Jamie through the living room, down the hall past the guest bathroom to—oh, this is Jamie's room. It looks pretty much how Tyler imagined: king-size bed, overflowing laundry basket, white walls with a framed jersey masquerading as decoration. When Jamie shuts the door, Tyler has to blink to adjust to the darkness: the only illumination is the early afternoon sun trickling through the blinds. "Come on," Jamie says, climbing onto the bed. "I want to—"

The bed is soft, pillowy. Tyler rolls over the edge and toward the center, right into Jamie, his back to Jamie's chest. Jamie doesn't shove him over. Instead, he wraps an arm around Tyler's waist. Something in Tyler's throat goes tight. "Okay," he says. "Let's do it."

Jamie lets go of Tyler, but it's just to grab his phone. He tucks his arm back against Tyler's side, hooking his chin on Tyler's shoulder, and props the phone up on the mattress at an awkward angle, pressing his thumb to the home button to unlock it. The video is an email attachment: it takes a minute to download and load. Jamie's belt buckle digs into the small of Tyler's back. Tyler's in and out of his body, suspended in anticipation, anchored by Jamie's hold. He breathes with Jamie. This isn't a big deal. Lots of players have done these videos. Ference, Chara, Landeskog. More all the time.

On Jamie's phone, the grey loading symbol disappears and the black background fills the screen, cutting to—Jamie, skating in from the left, then Tyler coming in from the right to stop behind Jamie. "I'm Jamie Benn, Captain of the Dallas Stars," video-Jamie says. "I'm Tyler Seguin," video-Tyler says. Cut to: game footage, Tyler pulling Jamie into post-celly hug as Val skates toward them. Cut to: video-Tyler in front of the drape, opening his mouth to speak. "Sports are for everyone—"

Jamie strokes his thumb against Tyler's side. He doesn't say anything. There's another shot of them on the ice, Jamie passing to Tyler through traffic, Tyler sending a one-timer into the net. It looks effortless. "If you can play," says video-Jamie. "You can play."

The video's only a minute-and-a-half long. Jamie lets go of his phone; it flops facedown onto the mattress. "Do you think that'll help gay kids?" Tyler says. "It doesn't seem like very much."

"I don't know," Jamie says. "Maybe." He's quiet after that. Maybe he's asleep.

Tyler doesn't know what would help gay kids, or what it would be like, to know you needed help, to want it. He buys a suite for youth with spinal cord injuries at every game. He played sled hockey with Jamie that one time. Maybe just putting their faces and their names on something is enough.

Jamie presses a soft kiss to the back of Tyler's neck. "Don't think so hard about it."

—

The flight to Calgary the next morning is at 9AM, so Tyler chugs a shake for breakfast and Jamie drives their tired asses to the airport. They pick up Jordie along the way and he dozes in the backseat while Jamie dodges the first wave of morning traffic. He's listening to some morning show on the radio, the volume low enough that the hosts are reduced to soft murmurs and punctuating shouts. Tyler can't stop yawning. "Knock it off, you're going to make me start," Jamie says. "Did you eat already?"

There's breakfast on the plane, croissants and scrambled eggs and ham, as well as coffee and OJ. After Jamie hands his trash to the stewardess, he pulls the window shade to half-mast. "I'm going to take a nap."

"Sounds good." Tyler's belly is full, the plane's lights are low, and he's already halfway asleep. Jamie tilts his head against Tyler's shoulder and Tyler leans in, stretching out his legs to relieve the strain on his knee. Jamie's hair smells like coconut Suave. Sometime today, one of Patrick Burke's interns is going to post a video on YouTube. Maybe one of the guys will say shit about it, but maybe not. Usually that guy is Tyler.

Clouds puff white against blue sky beside Jamie before they swell to fill the window and dim the cabin. Calgary tomorrow, Edmonton Friday, Vancouver Saturday: if they sweep this roadie, they could pull up into a playoff spot. Anything could happen. Tyler closes his eyes before they break free of cloud cover.


End file.
